


Waiting on Love Ain't so Easy to Do

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Anxiety, Binge Drinking, Fluff, Homeless Ideation, Kenny And Stan Are Ahead Of The Curve, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Poly, Pre-Relationship, References to BDSM, Self-Harm, Shelly Marsh Is A Good Sister And Also A Bitch, Smoking, Vaping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Nearing thirty and still living with his three best friends, Stan's sister thought he needed to get his act together and grow up. It was definitely a little homosexual, but if you were gay with your friends in a forest and no one was around to see it, did it make you a fag? Stan thought maybe not. He also thought maybe he wouldn't mind if it did. Whether or not the rest of the guys would mind, well, he was too scared to ask.(Not abandoned but on indefinite hiatus because I'm a bastard.)
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Eric Cartman/Stan Marsh, Kenny McCormick/Original Female Character(s), Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman, Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman/Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski/Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick
Comments: 31
Kudos: 95





	1. Must I Always Be Playing Your Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearing thirty and still living with his three best friends, Stan's sister thinks he needs to get his act together and grow up. It was definitely a little homosexual, but if you were gay with your friends in a forest and no one was around to see it, did it make you a fag? Stan thinks maybe not. He also thinks maybe he wouldn't mind if it did. Whether or not the rest of the guys would mind, well, he's too scared to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we need more main four poly. this is my contribution. i've never written it before and hope i've juggled all their interactions in a pleasing manner. might come back and write some more chapters focused on the other guys when inspiration strikes. titles are from sitting, waiting, wishing by jack johnson. didn't cross my mind whilst writing, but perhaps shelly is actually engaged to jack johnson; i mean, i haven't seen him and her fiance in the same room together before, so. i'll leave that up to your own headcanon.

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Stan despised shopping. For anything. Clothes, groceries, cars, whatever. He told himself it was holdover teenage anti-establishmentarianism. In reality, egregious consumerism did not confound him, but rather all the choices. He was an indecisive person and held no qualms with letting somebody else make his decisions—somebody else being one or two or all three of his best friends. Blue t-shirt or red? Kyle said blue brought out his natural undertones; so he went with blue. Frozen pizza or spaghetti for dinner? Kenny said pizza made for easier leftovers; so he went with pizza. Used Honda Civic or used Jeep? Cartman said Honda Civics have better gas mileage, and anyway Stan should be jumping at the bit to get his hippie ass into a hybrid, plus driving a Jeep would make him look like a douchebag; so he went with the Honda Civic. 

One can then imagine the unique stress Stan faced shopping for a wedding suit with nobody but his betrothed sister. Kyle said he should remind Shelly he wasn’t a little kid anymore. Kenny said he should force her to at least take him out to lunch. Cartman said he should go along with her demands, then gorge on Chipotle the day of the ceremony and deploy a huge spicy fart in the middle of her vows. Stan neglected to take any of their advice and allowed Shelly to commandeer his soonest day off from the animal shelter, whereupon she dragged him three towns over to a specific tuxedo shop. Not the one her fiancé patroned; no, the groomsmen couldn’t have the same tailor as the groom. He wasn’t allowed to go with the rest of the male wedding party either. Shelly worried he’d “freak them out,” and that he “couldn’t be trusted” without her “expert opinion” or else he’d “screw everything up.” 

The shop reeked of cologne and leather. An elderly tailor whisked them around offering suggestions. Old-fashioned or modern? Three-piece or two-piece? Bowtie or necktie? Shelly said old-fashioned two-piece with a necktie, and by the way the color scheme is apple burgundy and russet orange. The tailor pulled down twenty ensembles matching this description, all of which got piled onto Stan’s forearms. Barely able to see over the stack of ironed polyester encroaching his vision, he blindly fumbled after Shelly’s high-strung voice and found himself getting shoved into a wood-paneled dressing suite. 

The tailor relinquished his burden, hung every suit on a silver peg, and looked at him expectantly. “Well, son?” 

Stan dropped his pants with the last vestiges of his dignity. The tailor squatted and took measurements. His wrinkles emitted the same stinky cologne permeating the entire shop. His liver-spotted hands poked and prodded Stan’s clenched ass cheeks. His hands were steadier than the rest of him; a good sign for a tailor, Stan guessed.

Shelly vetoed every single suit except for the last one. Stan thought they could’ve just started started in reverse and save all the trouble. Next came shoes. He begged her not to make him wear real leather. She stated that her wishes as a bride trumped his environmental concerns. Boo-fucking-hoo. The tailor sized Stan’s feet—small for his stature—and ankles—willowy and feminine—then took it upon himself to compliment Stan’s calves thickened with miles of hiking. 

Two hours later Stan climbed into Shelly’s car feeling violated. His tuxedo lay flat across the backseat sheathed in plastic. He’d have to get it retailored closer to the wedding day. In case you get fat, Shelly said. She was so concerned about his BMI that she took him to a health food joint at another strip mall across the highway. They had vegetarian options, which wasn’t so bad. Shelly told Stan he was paying, which was pretty bad. 

She left to use the bathroom after they put their orders in. Stan immediately bee-lined out the front door and puffed his vape underneath the strip mall’s awning. He looked at the tuxedo ship across the highway, thinking the tailor was probably watching his calves from the window. Shelly took forever in the bathroom—she didn’t shit in public, but always reapplied a full face of makeup, creating a successively cakier layer of foundation that cracked and oozed in the evening. This left Stan with enough time to down half a chamber’s worth of mango vape juice and squeeze in a quick phone call. 

Kyle would be home from college eating lunch right now. Cartman, who worked nights doing freelance security, would be watching TV. Kenny had the day off from the tattoo parlor and would either be eating with Kyle or watching TV with Cartman. In any case, they’d all be within range of whoever’s speaker. 

Stan dialed Kenny. The most distractable among the three, he answered on the second ring. “Hey, man.”

“Hey, man,” Stan returned.

He could practically hear Kenny’s teeth scrape over his labret piercing in an amused grin. “How’s the shopping going?” 

“It’s terrible,” Stan said. 

Cartman’s voice cut off Kenny’s reply. “Is that Stan?” 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “You’re on speaker, buddy,” he told Stan. 

“Christ,” Stan muttered. 

“Kahl,” Cartman called. “Get over here. Stanley’s on the line.” 

A few seconds later Kyle joined in. “Stan, hey! How’re you holding up?” 

Stan pictured it: Cartman occupying two-thirds of the couch, Kenny wedged beside him, Kyle draped over the back with his head ducked between them. Stan sagged against the cement pillar at his shoulder, inhaled a fruity cloud. “I’m dying,” he reported. “I’m literally going to die. If not today, then at the actual wedding. Shelly’s gonna kill me.”

“Probably,” Kenny said. 

“You can’t let her boss you around,” Kyle said. “You’re a grown man. You’re not thirteen anymore. She needs to realize that.” 

“She needs to get her own bullshit sharted back at her,” Cartman said. 

Stan rolled his eyes. “I’m not shitting in the middle of the aisle, Cartman.” 

“Then I’ll do it,” Cartman said. “Come on, it’ll be funny.” 

“No you won’t,” Kyle said. “We cut you off from Chipotle, remember? After your fifth hemorrhoid.”

“All it takes is some hydrocortisone cream and I’m good as new,” Cartman said. “My anus has survived worse.” 

“I dunno if the bathroom tile’ll survive, though,” Kenny said. “Last time it looked like the nastiest period ever.” 

Cartman’s honking laugh shredded Stan’s ear drum. “Probably not as bad as Shelly’s—”

“Shut up,” Stan said. “Shut up about hemorrhoids and periods and—Shelly, dude, gross!” 

“Stan,” Kyle said. “Relax.” 

“Yeah, quit bitching,” Cartman said. “This is your own fault. If your sister asked you to bend over and take her strap-on you’d do it.” 

“I would not,” Stan said. 

“I might,” Kenny said. 

Stan grimaced. “Kenny, please.” 

“No, wait,” Cartman said. “We’re invited to the wedding, right?” 

“Uh, I assume,” Stan said. 

“Okay,” Cartman said. “Here’s what we’ll do. Kenny’ll seduce your sister with his slutty powers—”

“Hey,” Kenny protested. 

A muted thump preceded Cartman’s continuation. “Anyway, Kenny’ll whore himself out on Shelly. No female can resist him. She’ll peg him in the back room. Then you and me and Kyle’ll bring her husband—what’s his name?” 

“Jack,” Kyle supplied. 

“Yeah, we’ll bring Mister Jack Off in time for the money shot,” Cartman said. “Could you imagine?” 

“No,” Stan droned. 

“I was just joking,” Kenny said. “I wouldn’t let Shelly anywhere around my ass.” 

“Right, because your ass is such prime real estate,” Cartman chuffed. “As if. More like the fucking projects.” 

“Anyway,” Kyle interjected. “Did you get your tux?” 

Stan lowered his vape, zoned back into the conversation. “What?” 

“Your tux,” Kyle repeated. 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Some old creep felt me up putting it on. He said I have nice calves.” 

“You do have nice calves,” Kenny said. 

“Thanks, Kenny,” Stan said. “Anyway, yeah, I got it.” 

“With you?” Kyle pressed. “As in you’re bringing it home?” 

Stan lifted an eyebrow. “Um, yes?” 

“Fashion show,” Kenny said. “Fashion show when you get back, okay, dude?” 

“We wanna see what it looks like,” Kyle said. 

“I mean,” Cartman added, “we already know you’ll look geeky as hell. You wear anything besides basketball shorts, a t-shirt and sandals and your body goes into shock. But we wanna just confirm our suspicions.” 

“That’s not true,” Kyle said. 

“Yes it is,” Cartman argued. Fabric raked across Kenny’s phone; he must’ve turned towards Kyle. “Remember when Wendy and Token got hitched? That monkey suit he had on then?” 

“I really don’t want to think about that right now,” Stan said. 

“Oh, sorry,” Cartman drawled, “I forget we can’t say her name in this household—”

“We can too,” Kyle said. “You just bring it up to bug Stan—”

“That was a fun reception,” Kenny reminisced. “I caught the bouquet and did a keg stand.” 

Stan pressed his forehead into the cement pillar, headache worsening. “Guys!” 

They all silenced. 

“I’ll show you,” he said. “But I’m not putting on the shoes. She made me get leather.” 

“Oh, Stan,” Kyle said. “That’s terrible.” 

“What a bitch,” Cartman said. He considered leather among the finest of materials, but also considered that Stan had a right to deny himself such luxury. “I’m really gonna shit in her face, now.” 

“I bet you’ll look hot, though,” Kenny said. 

Stan’s face reddened. “Uh.” 

Kyle and Cartman didn’t know what to say either. Kenny’s voice rose, defensive. “I’m just saying! Totally not geeky, dude.” 

“We’ll see,” Cartman said. 

“Anyway,” Stan segued, very smooth. “We’re about to eat lunch. She’s making me pay, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Cartman said. 

“She should at least split the bill,” Kyle mumbled. 

“I’ll be on my way home soon is the point,” Stan said. 

The fatigue in his words made them all titter. “Let us know when you get close and we’ll draw you a bubble bath,” Cartman said. 

Stan grinned. “Aw, man. How thoughtful.” 

“Seriously, though,” Kenny said. “Kyle’ll skip his afternoon class—”

“I will not,” Kyle said. 

“Yeah-huh,” Kenny said. “Kyle’ll skip. I’m off today. Cartman, you don’t go in till, like, what, eight?” 

“Ten,” Cartman corrected. 

“So, yeah,” Kenny said. “That’s plenty of time for us to chill.”

Stan’s ass cheeks unclenched. His mouth spread in a mango-flavored smile. “Alright, guys.” 

“How about some Mario Kart?” Kyle suggested. “I’ll let you win a couple rounds.” 

“Don’t get cocky,” Stan warned. 

“Kyle’s full cock,” Cartman said. “He’s a twelve-inch throbbing shaft—” Another muted thump. “Ow, you circumcised Jew!” 

Indiscernible wrestling faded to the background. “Gotta go play ref,” Kenny said. “Kyle just piledrived Cartman off the couch.

Stan imagined Kenny waltzing across the living room in a sexy bikini, holding a Round One sign over his head, Kyle and Cartman tussling naked on the floor like a pair of oiled Romans. He squashed the image before it hooked into his brain never to be forgotten, laughed it off as if he were laughing at Kyle and Cartman’s antics. “Alright, bro.” 

“Get home soon,” Kenny said. “I might need backup.” 

“You know neither of us can stop ‘em when they really go at it,” Stan said. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. There was a weird pause. Kenny made it weirder. “Love you, buddy.” 

“Uh—you too, Kenny, buddy,” Stan stuttered.

He hung up and went back inside. Shelly was waiting for him coiled up like a cobra ready to strike, legs folded and arms crossed. He pocketed his vape and cell phone and sat down. 

“Our food is here,” Shelly said. 

“I can see that,” Stan said. He tore open a plastic fork and picked at his quinoa bowl. Shelly kept staring at him. He put his fork down. “Sorry I made you wait.” 

She took a bite of her chicken wrap to assert dominance. “I saw you standing out there with your pacifier.” 

Stan frowned. “Look, I’m gonna quit eventually. But if I do it now I’ll go back to cigarettes—”

“I’m not talking about how you traded one addiction for another,” she said. “I’m talking about your boyfriends.” 

“Uh—” Stan helmed his fork and shoveled a huge chunk of avocado past his lips. “They’re not my boyfriends, Shelly,” he said mid-chew. “They’re my roommates.”

She wasn’t phased by the green muck on his tongue. “You’re almost thirty, Stan. You shouldn’t have roommates. You should have a girlfriend—or a boyfriend—or whatever—not the same three guys you’ve been hanging around with since you were in diapers.” 

“It’s convenient,” he said. “It’s just until I get enough money to go back to veterinary school—”

“You’ve been saying that ever since you dropped out,” his sister retorted. She tossed her wrap down and leaned back in her seat. A piece of lettuce was stuck on her chin; Stan declined to point it out. “I don’t even know why the fuck you dropped out in the first place.” 

“I was going through stuff,” he said, and he was. Medical school—even the junior division, as Cartman dubbed it—had been too much for him to handle, sent him spiraling into a depressive fugue. “The guys helped me out.” 

“Oh, really,” Shelly said. “How? Staying up late playing video games?” 

“Uh,” Stan said. That had most certainly been part of it. But there were other things—Kyle, taking him to his therapy appointments; Cartman, proffering philosophical adages about how his life wasn’t on some timeline; Kenny, letting him tearfully vent until two in the morning. He wasn’t about to tell Shelly all of that. He wasn’t about to tell anybody any of that. It belonged to him and the guys. “No,” he said. 

“You’re such a fucking child,” Shelly scoffed. “You need to grow up. You all need to grow up. Before you all become a bunch of permanent bachelors.” 

Stan shrugged and looked down at his quinoa bowl. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I don’t feel like a relationship right now.” 

Shelly kicked his shin under the table. “That’s another thing! You haven’t felt like a relationship since Wendy dumped you eight years ago. She’s married, Stan. Move the fuck on.” 

Stan rubbed the bruise off his leg, then straightened and pushed his tray away, appetite gone. Shelly had that effect on people. “I have,” he promised. “Seriously, I’m over her. But that doesn’t mean I want to date anyone.” 

“I don’t know, brother of mine,” Shelly said. “Have you even tried?” 

Stan was beginning to think this whole outing was an excuse for her to interrogate him. “Here and there,” he said. 

“When?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because you’d make it into a big deal,” he said. “And it didn’t go anywhere, anyway.” 

“Who was it?” she asked. 

“Some guy from work,” he said. “A volunteer. And then a girl I met at that Jack Johnson show.” 

“You saw Jack Johnson two summers ago! When did you go out with that guy?” Shelly demanded.

“Maybe a few months ago,” Stan said. “So what?” 

“You can’t swear off dating if you only do it every two years,” Shelly sneered. 

She glared out the window to their right and stewed for awhile. Stan ate a little bit of his quinoa bowl just for something to do as she geared up for her closing statement. 

“It’s just ridiculous,” she said, looking at him again, hackles lowered. Genuine concern broke through her bitchy, cakey exterior. 

Stan wiped his mouth off with a napkin. “What’s ridiculous?” he asked.

“Your whole life,” she said. “You’re codependent. You rely on your friends too much. What happens if one of them goes out and finds somebody? The rest of you are gonna fall apart.” 

“We’re not a Jenga tower,” he said. 

“Yes you are,” she insisted. 

“I doubt that’ll happen anytime soon,” he said, uneasy at the possibility. “Kyle’s too focused on school. Kenny doesn’t do anything besides casual. And Cartman, jeeze—I don’t think he’s ever been with anyone.” 

“I don’t care about them,” Shelly snapped. “I couldn’t give a single fuck what they do with their lives.” She shuffled upward. Her hand stretched across the table and grasped Stan’s. He blinked, unused to her nonviolent touch. “It’s your life I’m worried about,” she said. 

He slipped his hand into his lap. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said. “I’ve got a good life. I like my life.” 

“Because you settle,” she said. “You let Wendy go. Didn’t even try to stop her from leaving you. Then you dropped out of school the second it go too hard. And now you’re settling with your friends, because it’s easy.” 

“I’m not settling for anything,” Stan said. “I’m living with them because I want to.” 

Shelly narrowed her eyes. “I thought it was only for convenience sake.”

“It is,” he groaned. “It’s both. It’s what it is. Can’t I just be happy?” 

“Happy,” Shelly said. “Happiness is overrated. Do you think I’m happy?”

“I hope you are,” Stan said. 

“Well, I’m not,” she said. “I’m fucking stressed to the max. I’m thirty-two. I’m putting all this work into a wedding that’ll be shit anyway, just to have a kid before my uterus implodes.” 

“Gross,” Stan said. 

“It’s the truth,” Shelly said. 

“What about Jack?” Stan asked. “Aren’t you happy with him? Or are you settling?” 

“Jack and I are in love,” she said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have proposed to him. Don’t fucking make assumptions about my relationship, you fucking spinster.” 

Stan edged backward, eying her clenched fist. She was known to still wallop him from time to time and it wasn’t good-natured roughhousing like with the guys. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“I want to get married,” Shelly said. “I want to pour money into an overpriced wedding. I want to have a kid. But I’m not exactly happy about it. It’s not easy. It’s real fucking life, Stan. Real life isn’t happy. Real life sucks balls. And the longer you avoid it, the suckier it’s gonna get.” 

Stan braced his elbows on the table and dropped his hand into his hands. He couldn’t dispute her point, because it was a valid one. He couldn’t endorse it either. “Maybe,” he admitted. 

Her lip curled at his non-answer. The lettuce on her chin fluttered into the folds of her blouse. “Whatever. I’m done trying to whip you into shape. It never worked when we were kids, and it’s not gonna work now.” She stood up and piled their barely touched trays, stared down at him with all the protective fury of an older sister. “One of these days you’ll realize I’m right. And you’ll wish you listened to me.” 

The forty-five minute drive home proceeded in tense silence. Stan cracked his window and vaped. Shelly kept pulling it back up, and he kept pulling it back down. She didn’t lock his controls, though—a passive-aggressive admission, a sister-brother back and forth she couldn’t not indulge. Eventually she cut it out and plucked an Alanis Morissette album from her overhead CD jacket. As one of the last Gen Xers, she stuck to physical music and detested modern radio. Stan was just thankful she didn’t play the Spice Girls. If you wanna be my sister, you gotta get with my friends. 

He retrieved his phone ten minutes out of South Park and texted Cartman: almost there. Might need that bubble bath. 

Are u cereal? Cartman replied. 

Super cereal, Stan sent. 

What did she do 2 u? Cartman asked. 

Stan snorted. Shelly gave him a side-glance. He shifted forty-five degrees against the door so she couldn’t peek at his phone screen. Just being her, he told Cartman. you know how she is. 

Ok, Cartman responded. 

The brevity made Stan frown. He set his phone facedown on his lap and flooded Main Street with mango. 

“Who was that?” Shelly asked. “Actually, don’t tell me.” 

“Okay,” Stan said. 

“It was Cartman,” she guessed. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” he said. 

“I knew it,” she said. 

“How?” he asked. 

“Because you let him get pissed about stuff for you,” she said. “You’re too much of a pussy to get mad, so you set him off.” 

“I’m not trying to set him off,” he said. 

“Okay, sure.” She glanced at him. “Did you tell him I’m a raging cunt?” 

“No,” he said. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

Shelly took a right at the police station, bumbling past their old neighborhood towards the more affordable residential area straddling the main junket of town and the sticks. Two-story houses gave way to split-levels gave way to dilapidated ranch homes moated by dehydrated lawns. The demographic varied between hoarders, addicts, and twenty-somethings. 

Stan fingered his door handle as they inched down the street towards the house he shared with the guys: vinyl white siding dirtied gray with age, two windows on the left looking into the living room, one window on the right looking into the kitchen, each bracketed by chipped shutters that served no practical purpose. Dented gutters shored peeling shingles. A small cement stoop buttressed the front door; Kenny’s ashtray sat on the short banister full of hand-rolled butts. In the driveway, Stan’s Civic rested next to Kyle’s Camry; Cartman had moved his Altima behind Stan’s car leaving Kyle room to return to school, a now unnecessary foresight. 

Shelly parked behind Kenny’s big old F-150 which kept permanent residence on the curb. “So,” Stan said. 

“Hang up your suit immediately,” she ordered. “Don’t take it out. Don’t even look at it.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

She was about to say something else—perhaps another commandment, or even an awkwardly affectionate goodbye, when the front door busted open. 

Stan let go of his door handle. “Jesus Christ.” 

“I told you,” Shelly said. 

Cartman came stomping across the lawn in house slippers, the cuffs of his threadbare sweatpants picking up snow, his brown bangs flouncing in the breeze. Shelly locked the car down and rolled Stan’s window up almost all the way. 

“Dude,” Stan began. 

Cartman pumped the exterior door handle. “Let him go, Shelly,” he demanded. 

“Not until you fuck off,” Shelly said. 

Kyle stepped out onto the stoop dressed in his college best, glasses perched on his freckled nose. “Cartman! Get back inside right now!” 

Cartman yanked the door again. “No!” 

“Don’t cause a scene,” Stan pleaded. He whipped towards his sister as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “You don’t either!” 

“Stay in the car,” Shelly commanded. She got out and rounded the hood. 

Cartman pivoted to face her, matching her 5’6 feet but twice as wide. “Hello, wench,” he greeted. 

Shelly lifted her chin. “What’re you gonna do, huh? You wanna kick my ass?” Years of wearing a dental brace had left her with a bit of a lisp. She’d spent her adult life schooling it out, but it had a tendency to reappear when she was angry. Cartman laughed. Her glower darkened. “Shut up, fatass!” 

Cartman widened his shoulders. “You shut up, bitch! Let’s go! I don’t even consider you a female—I’ll kick your ass all the way to Ass-pen!” 

Shelly dropped into an offensive stance Stan knew all to well. “Fine! I fucked you up when we were kids and I’ll do it again!” 

“I’m a goddamn security guard now,” Cartman informed. He bent his arm around his fist. “I’m packing a hundred pounds of pure muscle under all this beef!” 

Stan scrabbled over the middle console and hit the driver’s lock. He opened his door, forcing both of them to break apart, and sidled between them. “Guys, come on, don’t do this—”

They both pushed him away. Kyle abandoned the stoop and grabbed his shoulder before he fell. He righted himself against Kyle’s side. “Thanks, dude.” 

Kyle kept a hand on his elbow, glaring at Cartman. “Eric, stop. Or else I’ll tell your counselor.” 

“Go ahead,” Cartman said. 

“You’re supposed to manage your anger,” Kyle said. “Not feed into it.” 

Shelly smacked Cartman’s hefty chest. “You can’t manage shit! C’mon, butthole!” 

The front door banged yet again. Everybody turned to watch Kenny glide down the stoop barefoot in nothing but boxers, full-body tattoos exposed. He ignored Stan and Kyle and Shelly and went straight for Cartman, utilized his height advantage by slinging an arm underneath Cartman’s armpit. “Cartman,” he said. “Chill out. If you fight her, Jack’s gonna come around at midnight and fight you.” 

“Good,” Cartman panted. “I’ll kill ‘em both!” 

Kenny shook his head, long blond hair fanning out across his inky shoulders. “The neighbors’ll call the cops. And you just got off probation.” 

“You what?” Shelly asked. “I didn’t know you were on goddamn probation!” 

“Because it’s none of your fucking business,” Cartman yelled. 

Kenny tightened his grip. “Cartman,” he said again. 

“You’re all fucked in the head,” Shelly said. She turned to Stan. “This is what I tried telling you, Stan! You don’t need to be around this mess!” 

Kyle squeezed Stan’s elbow. Stan averted his gaze to the ground. “It’s not that bad,” he muttered. 

“Not that bad?” Shelly asked. She pointed at Cartman. “Look at him! He’s foaming at the mouth!” 

“I got him,” Kenny said. “He won’t do anything.” 

“You don’t got me,” Cartman said, ineffectually wiggling against Kenny’s hold. “Get off!” 

Kenny tucked his chin into Cartman’s shoulder. “She’s riling you up. She’s playing mind games. If you hit her, she wins. Be the bigger person, dude.” 

“He already is,” Shelly snickered. 

Cartman flung his leg in her direction. Kenny knocked it with his own, slipped his arm around Cartman’s neck, and spider-monkeyed him to the ground. “That’s enough!” 

Kyle stepped forward. “You need to leave, Shelly.” 

“So I’m the bad guy,” she said. “I’m the asshole for caring about my brother.” 

“Your concern is noted,” Kyle said. 

She waved him off. “Don’t fucking talk for him! I wanna hear it from Stan!” 

Stan looked up. “Uh, it’s okay. I’m alright, Shelly, I promise.” 

“This is alright,” she said, gesturing at Kenny and Cartman tumbling across the lawn. “This is your definition of okay.” 

“I guess,” Stan said. 

“Wow,” she said. “You know what? Forget it. You’re crazy as them. Crazier, even, for putting up with them.” She threw the back door of her car open and chucked Stan’s suit into the grass. “See you at rehearsal, faggot,” she said; rehearsal dinner wasn’t for another two months.

She got back behind the wheel and sped off down the street. Stan watched her disappear around the bend, then caught shuffling blinds in his peripheral vision. The neighbors across the street—couple of meth heads Cartman continuously reported to the pinhead authorities—shoved their rat faces against their window, looking disappointing at being withheld an action-packed afternoon matinée. 

Kyle picked up his suit and put an arm around his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go inside.” 

Stan nodded at Kenny and Cartman. “What about them?” 

Kyle pursed his lips. “Cartman! Kenny! Knock if off!” 

Kenny rolled on top of Cartman’s waist, pinned Cartman’s hands. His hair hid both their faces from view. Stan thought maybe they were making out, until Kenny reared back with spit running down his forehead. “You fucking dick!” 

Cartman bucked him off. “Don’t subdue me ever again.” 

“You let me,” Kenny accused. He climbed to his naked feet and crossed his arms, the emblems and creatures and words on his skin morphing into multi-colored eldritch soup. “You went down way too easy. You didn’t wanna fight her, admit it.” 

“I admit nothing,” Cartman said, still flat on his back. 

“You didn’t wanna ruin your streak,” Kenny said. “You didn’t wanna go back to group and have to tell everybody you relapsed.” He dropped his arms, his tattoos back to their original shape. “You did good, man.” 

“I plead the fifth,” Cartman said, like confessing emotional intelligence was a crime. He accepted Kenny’s outstretched hand and stood up, inspected his damp socks. “I lost my fucking slippers.” 

“I’ll help you find ‘em,” Kenny said. 

Kyle tugged Stan’s arm. “Come on, dude. Kenny’s got him.” 

Stan let Kyle guide him inside. They left the door open for Cartman and Kenny. Even with the cold air at his back, Stan warmed at the familiar surroundings. The entire house was decorated with their eclectic mishmash of aesthetics: Cartman’s movie posters, Kenny’s occult knickknacks, Stan’s various plants, and Kyle’s modest attempts at respectable interior design suffocated by all the rest. 

Stan’s gaze fell to the empty space in the middle of the floor, the couch and coffee table shoved against the wall. “What’s that?” 

“Oh,” Kyle said. He hung Stan’s suit on a key holder beside the door, took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cartman and me—we, uh, got into it.” 

“Kenny mentioned,” Stan said. “He was supposed to be referee.”

“Some ref,” Kyle smirked. “Usually they don’t jump into the fight. But, uh,” his expression sobered, “it’s kind of my fault. Cartman was already worked up, then you texted him—”

“I shouldn’t have,” Stan said. “I should’ve known he’d take it the wrong way. He always does. Anyway, don’t feel bad. He needs to blow off steam. If you didn’t push his buttons he’d probably be on parole instead.” 

Kyle folded his glasses into the collar of his nerdy turtleneck. “He just says stuff. I can’t let him get away with it.” 

“He called you a twelve-inch penis,” Stan grinned. “Maybe he was trying to compliment you.” 

“Maybe,” Kyle said. He coughed to hide his blush. “Anyway, I hope you were serious about that bath.” 

“I am now,” Stan said. 

“Okay,” Kyle said. He took Stan’s hand. It was definitely a little homosexual, but if you were gay with your friends in a forest and no one was around to see it, did it make you a fag? 

Kyle took Stan into their closet-sized bathroom. The toilet was so close to the bathtub Kenny’s knees touched its side when he took a shit, that’s how small it was. The bathtub was full to the brim with warm water and bubbles. A fluffy towel sat on the toilet seat above a pair of Stan’s basketball shorts and one of his t-shirts. 

“I thought maybe you’d like some candles,” Kyle said, lighting one of his three-wick Yankee candles on the sink counter. The scent of pine needles mixed with the fruity soap into a curiously masculine/feminine fragrance. He turned around and pointed at the toilet. “Towel, your comfy clothes.” 

“It’s awesome,” Stan said. “Thanks. Really.” 

“It was Cartman’s idea, remember,” Kyle reminded him. “Uh, well, that’s it. Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Okay,” Stan said. 

Kyle lingered at the door. “What did Shelly tell you, though? Cartman said you wouldn’t say.” 

“It’s nothing,” Stan dismissed. “It’s stupid. She was just being a bitch.” 

“Okay,” Kyle said, unconvinced. “Well, if you wanna talk about it—”

“I know,” Stan said. 

Kyle slapped the door jamb. “Just making sure.” 

“You gonna go tend to Cartman’s ego?” Stan asked. 

“Kenny’s got that covered,” Kyle said. “I don’t know how he does it.” 

“He’s an empath,” Stan said. “He’s clairvoyant.” 

“You know I don’t believe in that stuff,” Kyle said. 

“You don’t have to believe it,” Stan said. “It doesn’t make it any less true.” 

The metaphysical talk quickened Kyle’s departure. “Sure, Stan, okay. Enjoy your bath.” 

Stan stood for a second and listened to the front door close down the hall, Cartman’s irritated grumbling, Kenny’s amused consolations and Kyle’s maternal summary of Stan’s mental state. The couch and table screeched across the floorboards as they rearranged the living room. A cheery jingle followed, supplemented by Mario’s whippee! Stan thought it was unfair they were getting practice before the tournament. He thought maybe they should all be in here with him as he sat naked in the tub—Kyle washing his hair, Kenny firing up a bong, Cartman spinning a tangent about nothing important to fill the silence. 

Stan opened the medicine cabinet and swallowed an anxiety pill with a palmful of tap water. He undressed, reclined in the bath, and played Jack Johnson on his phone, his vape on the edge of the tub for easy access. A mango cloud soon joined the pine-scented steam above his head. He put his vape on the floor so it wouldn’t fall into the water, sloped his shoulders low, knocked his head back and closed his eyes. 

He dozed off, slipping lower and lower until a deluge of lukewarm water woke him up. His eyes flew open. He tried gasping, ended up inhaling more water into his lungs. He keeled over the edge of the bathtub and hacked onto the tile. Soapy snot burned his nostrils. The rest raked down his throat, landed in his stomach, made him gag. He slapped his palms down, knocked his vape over, sent his phone skittering into the toilet. 

Footsteps plodded towards the door. “Stan?” Kyle asked. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Can I come in?” 

“Oh, don’t be so polite,” Cartman said. The doorknob rattled. “Stan, you’ve got three seconds before we all see your dick.” 

Stan didn’t have the oxygen to tell them to fuck off. Cartman shouldered into the bathroom, Kenny and Kyle right behind him. Stan curled his legs up, the sudsy coverage in the water reduced to a thin film. “I’m okay,” he wheezed. “I fell—I fell asleep—”

Kyle knelt beside him. “Stan, it’s okay—”

Stan shoved him away. His head thunked into the toilet. Kenny grimaced. Cartman blinked. 

“I’m fine,” Stan said. “Leave me alone!” 

Kyle sat up. “Stan, calm down.” 

“I am calm,” Stan said. He spat another glob of soap into his hand, smeared it off on the tub’s ceramic. “I’m fucking okay, just go away, please, I’m serious.” 

“You’re shaking,” Cartman said. “Did you take your loony meds?” 

“Eric,” Kyle hissed. 

Stan grasped the shower curtain and pulled it across the tub, shielding himself. “Screw off.” 

Kyle’s shoes squeaked on the tile as his shadow rose. Cartman shuffled, obstinate. 

Kenny finally spoke up. “Get out,” he told them.

They froze. “What?” Kyle asked. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Cartman said. 

“Get out,” Kenny repeated. His black limbs prodded Kyle and Cartman’s wraiths. “Go on, get. You guys are just gonna freak him out.” He pushed them out into the hall and locked the door. 

“You’re on my shit list, Kinneh,” Cartman said. 

“Stan, come on,” Kyle said, “that’s not fair Kenny gets to stay. Tell him we get to stay. Or at least I do.”

“Hey,” Cartman said. 

Stan didn’t say anything. Kenny didn’t either. Kyle and Cartman wallowed a little longer. When it became apparent nothing was going to happen they retired to the living room and resumed playing Mario Kart. Cartman cussed Kyle out over a red shell and Kyle cussed him out over strategically placed bananas, but it was all a bullshit projection to illustrate how much fun they were having without the other half of their quartet. They were both very jealous individuals. They were both a lot alike. Which was why Kenny shunted them out. 

Stan peeked around the curtain. Kenny sat against the wall, his long legs stretched along the entire length of the tub. He wasn’t looking at Stan. He wasn’t looking anywhere. He could look at nothing all day and be totally entertained. Stan traced the snakes on his shinbones, the tiger on his stomach, the raven on his sternum, Karen’s name in cursive script on top of his heart. 

“Kenny,” he said. 

Kenny wouldn’t look at him. “What’s up?” 

What’s up? What’s down? What’s left and right? What the hell is going on? 

“Can you get me some water?” Stan asked. “And, um...” 

“Yup,” Kenny said. He filled a Dixie cup with tap water, set it on the floor with Stan’s pill bottle, then sat back down and recommenced his stare-off with the universe. 

Stan swallowed another pill and swished the soap out of his mouth, spitting it back into the bath. “Thanks.” 

“Yup,” Kenny said again. 

“Can you hand me my vape?” Stan asked. 

Kenny smirked. “Can I take a hit?” 

“Sure,” Stan said. 

Kenny paused the acoustic melodies on Stan’s phone while he reached behind the toilet. Silence fell hard and soft. He hallowed his cheeks around the vape, let the cloud funnel out of his pierced nostrils, passed it to Stan. “Yummy,” he said. 

“It’s pretty good,” Stan agreed. “Wish you’d get one and stop smoking cigarettes.” 

Kenny frowned at the wall. “I don’t smoke around you.” 

“I’m not saying that,” Stan said. “I’m saying for your own health.” 

“Oh,” Kenny said. “My dad’s been smoking and drinking ever since he was eleven. His dad had been smoking and drinking since he was eight and lived till he was ninety-four. My genetics are rock solid.” 

“I wouldn’t trust genetics over cancer,” Stan said. 

“I got other genetics besides paternal,” Kenny said. 

Stan put his chin on the edge of the bathtub. “What’s that mean?” 

“It means I’m good,” Kenny said. He’d only talk freaky stuff with Stan, because Stan was the only one who could digest it. Kyle was a straight up unbeliever. Cartman believed it, but it wigged him out. “Trust me,” Kenny said. He finally looked at Stan, though loose locks of hair mitigated the eye contact. “I’m all good.” 

“Okay,” Stan said, “I believe you.” 

“I know you do, buddy,” Kenny said. “You’ve got a very open mind. You’re clued in.” 

“I’m cold,” Stan said. 

Kenny smiled. “Then get out. Lemme warm you up.” 

“Kenny,” Stan whined. “Stop doing that.” 

Kenny’s smile magnified. “Stop doing what?” 

“You know what,” Stan said. 

“I do know what,” Kenny said. “You know too. Those guys,” he jerked his middle finger at the door, “they don’t know yet. It’s gonna take ‘em another thirty years before they know.” 

“I know,” Stan sighed. 

“We’ll wait, though,” Kenny said. “You and me, we’re patient.” 

“Shelly told me we’re all codependent,” Stan said. Kenny was good at wicking thoughts out of people, mostly because he never asked anything; in the absence of questions there laid the strongest need to provide answers. “She said I need to grow up and that I don’t know what real life is.” 

“Real life is a lie,” Kenny said. “What’s real to you isn’t real to me isn’t real to her.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “That’s kind of what I tried telling her. You say it better.” 

“I get how it looks,” Kenny said. “All of us still living together, you know. But maybe she’s jealous. Nobody grows up, I think. People grow down. They grow out. We haven’t. She has.” 

“I guess,” Stan said. “But, like—seriously, man. How it looks. It’s bad.” 

“So?” Kenny asked. 

“So,” Stan said. “So, we can’t do anything about you know what.” 

“And what do you wanna do about it?” Kenny prompted. 

Stan shrugged. “I dunno. Make it official.” 

“It’s already official,” Kenny said. “Look, I’m officiating it right now.” 

“You know what I mean,” Stan said. 

“Ah,” Kenny said. “You wanna have an orgy, huh?” 

Stan blushed. “Uh, I mean—”

“Excuse me,” Kenny said. “Make love, I mean. A four-way love fest.” 

Stan sucked another helping of mango bliss. “I mean, yeah,” he said. It felt good to say. “Yes. I really do.” 

“It’s on the horizon,” Kenny said. “I can feel it.” 

“Really?” Stan asked. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Kenny said. “And the feeling doesn’t lie to me.”

“What about Kyle and Cartman?” Stan asked. 

“They feel it too,” Kenny said. “They just don’t know they’re feeling it.” 

“How do we let ‘em know, then?” Stan asked. 

“We can’t,” Kenny said. “You can’t force it. They gotta realize it themselves. But, like I said, it’s coming on.”

Stan grinned. “You got a date? Can I mark it on my calender?” 

“Don’t be smart,” Kenny grinned back. He curled forward on his knees and grasped the edge of the bathtub. His hair dipped into the water, glued to Stan’s bare chest. “We can do something about it,” he said. “Just us. Get a headstart. They won’t know.” 

Stan’s heart thumped. His vape fell out of his fingers and clacked onto the tile. “I don’t know, man. That’s unfair.” 

“No it’s not,” Kenny said. “It’s all part of the plan. We’re laying the foundation. We’re just a couple of saps. We need to get our groove on. It’ll clue ‘em in.” 

“Kenny,” Stan said. “That’s mean.” 

“I’m not gonna flirt with you in front of ‘em,” Kenny assured. “Or, more than I already do. This isn’t being mean. This isn’t mind games. We’re just gonna put the energy out there. If you want to.” 

“I want to,” Stan said. 

“Yeah?” Kenny asked. 

“Yes,” Stan said. 

“Okay.” Kenny cupped his jaw, leaned into him. “Tell me to stop and I will.” 

Stan clutched his wrists. “Don’t stop.” 

Kenny slotted their lips together. It didn’t feel like their first kiss. It felt like the millionth-billionth-trillionth kiss. Stan dreamed about it every night, with Kyle and Cartman too. Kenny’s lips were chapped just as he’d imagined, Kenny’s piercings cold and sharp but not unpleasant. They kept their mouths closed, tongues held back behind their teeth. It wasn’t about that. It was just about this. 

They parted. Kenny thumbed Stan’s earlobes. “How’s that for official?” 

Stan chuckled. “I like it.” He wanted to do it again, but that’d be overkill. He was struck with the premonition nothing else would happen until Kyle and Cartman initiated it. And that’s how things worked with them. Stan and Kenny paving the way, Kyle and Cartman leading the charge. And he was alright with that. 

“Me too,” Kenny said. He patted Stan’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a few.” 

He skipped out of the room quick as a bullet. Kyle and Cartman whispered indiscernible inquiries. Kenny assuaged them, laughing brightly. Stan pictured it: Cartman occupying two-thirds of the couch, Kyle wedged beside him, Kenny propping himself on Cartman’s lap, legs thrown over Kyle’s thighs. Stan got dressed, drained the tub, blew out Kyle’s candle. He walked into the living room sated and clean and fit right into the picture. 


	2. Got Time to Wait for Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some habits die hard—and Kenny couldn’t die. He wore a metaphysical sheet over his head. Only three people were allowed to check what laid underneath. So far none had. Kenny wasn’t too bothered by his friends’ reluctance. There was a reason he put the sheet on in the first place. Any day now, he told himself. He woke up every day and told himself today might be the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my kenman bias, my kenny bias, and my stone temple pilots bias shows through a lot in this one, lol. i've got this trend where i pair kenny up with hot manic pixie dream bisexuals. he's too much of a stud. 
> 
> two more parts for kyle and cartman coming up next, then a fifth clincher. after that i'll probably drum up some supplementary one shots. i didn't expect to build a whole verse off of this but that's what happened. 
> 
> title is from plush by STP. acoustic or studio, your pick.
> 
> 5/7/2020 edit: update coming soon, don't worry. i haven't forgotten about this fic!

Kenny didn’t not like his job, but it wasn’t the dreamy artistic endeavor he imagined as a teenager. His clientèle were of the same sort he’d serviced doing stick n’ pokes for ten bucks at lunch behind the high school—that is, young girls trying to get in his pants and/or prove their mettle to their friends and/or piss off their parents. Day in, day out he inked countless dream catchers and infinity symbols and song lyrics. It was an easy paycheck and he did good work. He was the most popular tattoo artist in South Park at this point. His books were full of appointments reserved weeks in advance and his tips were astronomical, either in the form of cold cash or a quick blowjob. But he hadn’t started with money or clout in mind. He became a tattoo artist because he was an artist, point blank, and it seemed like a practical application of his skills. Practicality sucked the life out of creativity, though. 

Sometimes he thought he should’ve followed the example of his McCormick ancestors. What a life that’d be. Living in a cardboard box, ladling soup at the Salvation Army, panhandling for weeks to get a pack of smokes and a handle of vodka. He’d spray-paint city drainage tunnels or Sharpie cryptic murals on storefronts’ inner thighs. That would’ve been more creatively gratifying than the crap he etched into people’s wrists and big toes. The only thing that kept him from fulfilling his hick destiny was the guys. Them, and his side ho Clarissa. 

Clarissa was the tattoo parlor’s piercer and she had a face to match. She’d stabbed Kenny a bajillion times; in return, he carved her. A fair transaction secured further with Reverse Cowgirl quickies in the break room. She was a bit of a dom. Kenny just liked watching the chorus of angels and demons on her back flap their wings under his hands. The frequency of their trysts waxed and waned; Kenny pumped the brakes whenever he got too clingy. Neither he nor Clarissa wanted anything beyond casual, but it was hard not to catch feelings when he knew her pussy like the back of his illustrated hand. 

She called him a ghost. She said he was very mysterious. Not that he withheld anything from anyone. Full disclosure was part of his philosophy. But occult obscuration was part of his vibe. He supposed he never stopped hiding, even after he shed his parka cocoon. Some habits die hard—and Kenny couldn’t die. He wore a metaphysical sheet over his head. Only three people were allowed to check what laid underneath. So far none had. Stan peeked every once in awhile but was too insecure to allow himself the full honor. Cartman assumed he already knew everything there was to know about Kenny and stuck to that claim or else admit he was wrong. Kyle got squicked out at anything beyond the realm of empiricism and was smart enough to know that if he looked closer Kenny would suck him into a wormhole. Kenny wasn’t too bothered by his friends’ reluctance. There was a reason he put the sheet on in the first place. Still, it kind of sucked. His sixth sense told him they’d come around to it eventually, and that wait was what impeded him from going off the deep end. Any day now, he told himself. He woke up every day and told himself today might be the day. 

Today was not the day. Today he was entrenched in Clarissa’s snatch. She bounced on his cock, rebuffing his attempts to help expedite the process. Kenny liked helping people but Clarissa didn’t need or want his help. That was part of why they’d never gotten together for real. If he was a ghost, she was a harpy, a bird of prey with a pretty face. 

“Thought about going under the needle again soon?” he asked her. 

She glanced over her shoulder, rainbow hair catching on the metal studding the helix of her ear. “Not until you get under mine.” 

Kenny tongued the labret hoop bisecting his bottom lip. “I don’t got no more room. I’m on the no-fly list. They won’t let me pass the metal detector. My body counts as a knife.” 

“Well,” she swiveled her ass, “you’ve covered every square inch of my skin.” 

“Nah.” He roved his fingertips in the cracks of flesh between her tattoos. “There’s still room. We can squeeze a couple more. I got an idea.” 

“What’s that?” she asked. The nice thing about her was she left him artistic license. She didn’t expect him to be a copy machine. 

“A harpy,” he said. 

“A harpy?” she asked. 

“Badass eagle chick,” he explained. “With killer tits and a pretty face.” 

“Okay,” she said. 

She turned back around and pumped her hips, hands braced on the portion of leather couch exposed between their splayed legs. The bad thing about her was she didn’t exactly enjoy sex. Not really. She simply performed it. It was strictly physical. She gobbled cock like an ATM. Thanks, have a good day. Transaction complete. She got down and dirty sometimes, when they took the event to her house. Kenny’d lay flat on his back and she’d perform stepping on his cock, perform choking him out, perform trussing him up like a butchered pig. Whereas he absorbed the punishment deep into his soul, she doled it out surface level, calculated and indifferent. 

“I’m tired,” she said, “let’s wrap this up.” And she squeezed his cock inside out, wrung his orgasm just like that. She’d probably squirted twice already. The past ten minutes she was probably just humoring his male sentimentality. 

Kenny dropped his forehead onto her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her stomach. “Jesus,” he panted. 

“Kenny,” she said. “Let me go.” 

“I need a breather,” he said. 

She sighed. “Alright, then.” 

He nosed the nape of her neck shaved bare underneath her hair. Her gauged earlobes smelled like rotten cottage cheese. He thought he could fit his dick in ‘em but had never asked to test the theory. She let him cling for a bit, then climbed off his lap. Cum dripped down her thighs and down his cock onto the couch. 

She traipsed towards the sink meant for Tupperware and wetted a paper towel which she swept underneath her vagina. “What’re you doing tonight?” she asked. 

Kenny pushed the hair out of his face. “Huh?” 

“Do you have any plans?” she asked. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he said. “Movie night with Cartman.” 

She tossed her pussy rag into the neon trashcan meant for biohazardous waste. “There’s a show. Some Stone Temple Pilots cover band.” 

Kenny’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know STP cover bands existed.” 

“I hear they’re alright,” Clarissa said. She trotted back to the couch, plucked the condom off his softened cock, and folded another wet paper towel over his sensitive shaft. He gasped at the cold. She cleaned him off cruel and unsympathetic, her black nails digging through the paper into his foreskin. “Me and some friends are going. Maybe you can come with. They’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“You talk about me?” Kenny asked. 

“Yeah. Don’t you talk about me?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. 

“Well, then.” She discarded the condom and cum rag in the nuclear receptacle and started redressing—fishnet stockings, a denim skirt, a black sweater and combat boots, the soles of which were imprinted on Kenny’s ball sack. “Some of them want to meet you. You know.” 

“Uh-huh,” Kenny said. 

“There’s my friend Paul,” she said. “He’s a taxidermist. And Megan. She’s a witch.” 

“I don’t fuck with anybody else’s magicks,” Kenny told her. “I’m a lone wizard.” 

“She says she’s communicated with you in the fourth dimension,” Clarissa informed. “Have you ever dreamt of a black wolf?” 

“I’ve dreamt lots of things,” Kenny said. “I don’t keep a journal. I can’t remember.” 

“Maybe you should,” she said. 

He bent down and pulled his jeans up from his ankles, fumbled with his fly. “Look, Clarissa. I appreciate you wanna match me up. But you know me. I don’t do that stuff.” 

She handed him his cut-off tee. “You’re a nice guy, Kenny. I’m just looking out for you.” 

“I don’t need a lookout,” he said. His head pierced the aperture of his collar, the split-ends of his long hair stuck underneath. “I’m not looking for anything.” 

“Okay,” she said. “That’s fine. I get it.” She stood over him, hands on her hips, unsatisfied. She looked at him sometimes like she was peeling back his frontal lobe. She was one of those people who had the gift but chose not to capitalize on it save for her own selfish purposes. It made Kenny want to gouge her third eye and give it to somebody who needed it, like Stan. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” she said, dropping her arms. “It’s not worth it.” 

He stood up after her. “No, seriously, what is it?” 

“You won’t hear it,” she said. She picked up her purse and slung the strap over her chest. “You won’t listen.” 

“I’m listening,” he said. “I’m a great listener.” 

“Not when it’s about you.” She rose onto her combat tiptoes and jabbed a clinical kiss into his cheek. “Nine-thirty,” she said. “Text me if you change your mind.” 

Kenny stewed on her words. He tromped outside after locking up the parlor, leaned against his truck and lit a cigarette. His phone vibrated in his back pocket. 

You got off an hour ago where are u 

Kenny pinched his cigarette between his lips, typed, Got off 5 min ago actually

No shit, Cartman replied. Clarissa? 

Ya, Kenny confirmed. 

Fuck her, Cartman sent. 

Already did, Kenny shot back. He ashed his cigarette, bracing himself for the inevitable call. His phone rang a second later. 

“Dude,” Cartman said. “You fucking asshole.” 

“Hello, dear,” Kenny greeted. “I had a great day at work. Thanks for asking.” 

“I’m sure you fucking did,” Cartman grumbled. “Why the hell do you commiserate with that chick?”

“She’s cool,” Kenny said.

“No she isn’t,” Cartman said. “She’s soulless. She’s mean.” 

“You’re soulless and mean,” Kenny posited. 

“Within reason,” Cartman said. “I don’t screw you dry then leave you for the vultures.” 

“You haven’t screwed me at all,” Kenny said. “I’m game, though, if you’re down for pound town.” 

Cartman spent five minutes wrestling with his internalized sexual inclinations. “Just get home,” he finally spat. “I’m bored as fuck. I’m all alone.” 

“Where’s Stan and Kyle?” Kenny asked. 

“Stan’s with Shelly,” Cartman said. 

Kenny sucked an angry drag. “Seriously? After the bullshit she pulled?” 

“Her friend found some dog on the highway,” Cartman said. “She asked Stan to come take care of it. Obviously he couldn’t resist.” 

“Yeah,” Kenny said, smokily deflating like a dropped bag of flour. 

Cartman wasn’t moved by Stan’s devotion to animals. “I bet it’s a farce,” he said. “I bet it’s a trap. She baits him with a sad puppy. Next thing you know he’s locked in her trunk.” 

“Well,” Kenny said, “if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow morning we’ll go break him out. Where’s Kyle?” 

“Coaching at the Boys and Girls club,” Cartman said. “Remember? He signed up to babysit a bunch of pre-pubescents every Wednesday.”

“Oh, right,” Kenny said. 

“I don’t know why,” Cartman said. “If he’s wanting a kid, that’s it, game over. We’re voting him off the island.” 

Kenny chuckled. “He probably just misses the thrill of the sport.” 

“I’m sure it’s real thrilling trying to teach moron ten-year-olds how to not double dribble,” Cartman snorted. 

“Anyway, even if he had a kid, he wouldn’t get off the island,” Kenny said. “We’d help him out.” 

“You’re just saying that because you’re gonna knock up Clarissa one of these days,” Cartman said. 

“Nuh-uh,” Kenny said. “She’s worse than I am about protection. She’s saving up to get her tubes tied. She’s anti-natalist. She’s part of the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement.”

“The what?” Cartman asked. 

“She believes humans need to die out. We need to stop procreating and give the earth back to Mother Nature,” Kenny explained. 

“Well, shit,” Cartman said, “so the fuck do I. I don’t got a bumper sticker for it. Anyway, that’s sketchy as fuck. You better watch out. She might just bite your dick off.” 

“She might,” Kenny said. “She’s pretty freaky. It’s why I won’t let her give me a Prince Albert.” 

“A what?” Cartman asked. 

“It’s a penis piercing,” Kenny said. “Through the urethra. It’s like a door knocker. A dick knocker, if you will.” 

“I’m gonna knock your dick if you don’t get home already,” Cartman threatened. “Let’s talk crap about her in person. It’s more fun that way.” 

“Alright, alright,” Kenny said. “I’ll finish my smoke and head over.” 

“Okay,” Cartman said. “Hey—if you see Shelly’s car, tail her. Make sure Stan’s alive in the passenger seat.” 

“Why don’t you call him?” Kenny asked. 

“You know how he is,” Cartman said. “I can’t interrupt his Steven Irwin heroics.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Kenny said. 

“I’m right about a lot of things,” Cartman said, “including Clarissa.”

“You’ve got good intuition,” Kenny said.

“I do not,” Cartman denied. “It’s not some Pagan thing. It’s called situational awareness. It’s common fucking sense. I’m the only one who has any, anymore.” 

“Uh-huh,” Kenny said. “What’s your common sense saying right now?” 

“Lemme channel my energies,” Cartman said. There was the sound of heavy rustling and stretchy elastic. He ripped an emergency reserve fart directly into the receiver. 

Kenny’s nose scrunched. “Jesus, man.” 

“Hurry up,” Cartman commanded. 

The call clicked out. Kenny finished his cigarette then lit another. Cartman deserved a late fee. 

Evening crested over Main Street’s crown and stretched across the parking lot. The moon winked at Kenny between wispy clouds. It was a good night to drive into the mountains, lay down in his truckbed and watch the sky. He used to do that a lot when he was a teenager but not anymore. Now he had obligations, a home to go home to instead of run away from. He still wasn’t used to not running away. He still felt claustrophobic sometimes. Maybe he’d drop anchor once the guys admitted their shared love affair. Right now he was treading the water, their unresolved feelings circling his feet. He was tired. Either swim up or drown, he wanted to tell them. 

He smoked a third cigarette on the drive back home, stamped it out in the ashtray on the front stoop before walking inside, smoke still leaking out of his pierced nostrils. The living room cradled him in warm light. The extinguished night smoldered on its haunches through the windows.

Cartman twisted away from the television, an arm thrown over the back of the couch. Cartoons cast his hair and favorite blood-red hoodie in neon shadow. “Took you long enough,” he said.

“Sky’s nice,” Kenny offered as an excuse. He toed his fifteen-year-old Converse off, tattered and tattooed as their owner. They thumped next to Cartman’s Vans beside the door. Stan’s year-round Birkenstocks and Kyle’s Sperrys were conspicuously absent. He forewent the coat hook, dropping his patched jean jacket to his socked feet. “Have you ate?” he asked. 

“Pizza’s on the counter,” Cartman said. His eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?” 

Kenny frowned mid-stride towards the kitchen. “Why?” 

Cartman shrugged. “You seem off.” 

“I’ve said, like, five words since I walked in the door,” Kenny said. 

“You’ve got a whole,” Cartman waved his hand, “melancholic vibe.” 

“Melancholic,” Kenny said. 

“Emo,” Cartman defined. “Dramatic. Foreboding. Introspective.” 

“I know what it means,” Kenny said. He dipped into the kitchen, opened the squat fridge and pulled out a PBR from the bottom drawer, then snatched a slice of frozen pizza off the stovetop. Cartman always bought the nastiest supreme variety piled with a thousand different toppings that nuked Kenny’s tastebuds. He walked back into the living room and plopped beside Cartman, beer in hand, pizza crust clenched between his teeth. 

Cartman shuffled to make space. Two empty bottles of Bud Light rattled when he kicked his gorilla feet onto the coffee table, and a third sat wedged next to his hip half-empty. 

“Pretty bored, huh?” Kenny asked. 

“Yup,” Cartman said. He took a swig of beer. It didn’t matter. He was so fat he could plow two six-packs and metabolize back to sobriety within thirty minutes if he stopped drinking. “How’s work?” 

“Okay,” Kenny said around a mouthful of peppers and onion and sausage and cheese. “Usual stuff. Except this ex-con came in. Asked if I could cover up the swastika on his forehead. I put him in for tomorrow.” 

“Whoa,” Cartman said. “For serious? Did you see it?” 

“He wore a big beanie,” Kenny said. “He’s reformed now. Doesn’t want anybody to see it.” 

“Nazis aren’t reformed,” Cartman said. “The Nazi scientists that got us to the moon weren’t reformed. Either he’s doing it to get a job or he wasn’t a Nazi in the first place.” 

“Maybe,” Kenny said. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if he joined a prison gang,” Cartman said. “Y’gotta do that to survive.” 

“You never went to prison,” Kenny said. 

“I was close,” Cartman said. “I was adjacent. I hear guys talk about it when I go see my parole officer.” 

Kenny passed the last half of his pizza slice before Cartman launched into an embellished tangent. “Here.” 

“You aren’t hungry?” Cartman asked.

“No,” Kenny said. 

Cartman swallowed the pizza in one huge bite, chased it with a gulp of Bud Light. “Clarissa’s pussy ruin your appetite?” 

“No.” Kenny dropped his temple against Cartman’s soft shoulder and stared at the cartoons without really watching. “Or, I mean, it wasn’t her pussy.” 

“But it was her,” Cartman said, really watching Kenny. “What for?” 

“I dunno,” Kenny sighed. “She’s just weird. If you think I’m melancholic you should go get a load of her.”

“That’s women for you,” Cartman said. “I don’t want a load of Clarissa or any other female.” 

“You don’t want a load of anybody,” Kenny said. 

“Because people suck,” Cartman said. “She’s right about that at least. Bring on World War Three. Burn us off the planet. Kaboom.” 

“What’re we watching?” Kenny asked.

“An educational film,” Cartman said. He stood up. Kenny’s upper torso drooped into the ass-print he left in his wake. He squatted beside the television where his laptop was hooked up to an HDMI cable. The cartoons cut away to his cluttered desktop wallpapered with a photo of a shiny sportscar. “I torrented it,” he said. “I think perhaps it will teach you something of value.” 

“If you wanna watch a documentary let’s do it when Stan and Kyle are home,” Kenny said. “The whole point of movie night is to watch stuff they can’t stomach.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s still fucked up,” Cartman promised. “But it’s not that great. It’s, like, so bad it’s good. Give me a second.”

The sportscar was eclipsed by a folder entitled MOVIES subdivided into various genres and directors. Cartman clicked on a subfolder dedicated to KENNY. The library consisted of slasher and snuff flicks. He scrolled to the bottom and booted up a new download. Teeth.wmv. 

“I feel like I’ve heard of that before,” Kenny said.

“I’m sure you have,” Cartman said. He fiddled with the media player’s settings, then pressed play and returned to the couch. “Move.” 

“No.” Kenny extended across the couch, his feet hanging off the opposite armrest. “I’m comfy.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Cartman smacked his knees. He lifted his legs and brought them down again once Cartman sat, like an automatic parking lot gate. That’ll be twenty fucking bucks. Cartman stroked his shins with one hand and held out his other palm. “Beer?” Kenny obliged, then manned his own.

The movie started innocently enough. Christian girls with purity rings that failed to corral their teenage sex drives. The main character, a repressed blonde, fell for an idiot guy who convinced her to meet him at a swimming hole. He got too handsy. She freaked out but he persisted anyway. Cartman laughed at her ineffectual struggle. Kenny toed his stomach. Just watch, he snickered. Kenny looked back at the television, waiting for the punchline. The guy started raping the girl. A few seconds later he screamed and staggered away, blood geysering out of his cock. Or, where his cock should have been. 

“See?” Cartman said. “See? Her vagina’s got teeth. Teeth, Kenny. Hence the title. It’s hilarious.” 

Kenny propped up on an elbow and chugged the rest of his PBR, then crumpled the can and lobbed it at Cartman’s head. “You’re an asshole.” 

Cartman tossed the can back at him. Expecting retaliation, Kenny ducked. The can clattered into a bookshelf lined with Kyle’s paperback mysteries. “How?” Cartman asked. 

“Because,” Kenny said. He protracted his legs off Cartman’s lap and sat up. “I’m getting another beer.” 

Cartman followed him into the kitchen. “How am I an asshole?” 

Kenny kept the refrigerator door open as a barricade. “You’re jealous.” 

Cartman’s cheeks flared. His embarrassment quickly morphed into anger. He whacked the fridge shut and boxed Kenny into the rickety table they used to play cards but not to dine, slapped his hands down, trapping Kenny between his arms. “I’m concerned for your emotional wellbeing,” he said.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Kenny said. He perched on top of the table and cracked his beer open. “You’re a real funny fucking guy, Eric.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cartman asked. 

Kenny swished piss water down his throat. “What’s it matter to you if Clarissa’s vagina bites my dick off?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re my friend,” Cartman drawled. 

“If you were my friend you’d be high-fiving me,” Kenny said. He raked his hair behind his ear and burped at Cartman’s face. “You’d be, like, nice score, bro. Congratulations on the hot chick.” 

Undeterred, Cartman pressed closer. “Clarissa’s a bitch. She’s a bad influence. You come back from her place with cuts and bruises, man—”

“Because I ask her to,” Kenny said. “It’s nothing. It’s fun to me.” 

“You can get shoved around here,” Cartman said. “Me and the guys’ll set up a wrestling ring in the backyard. It’ll be like old times. You don’t need a dominatrix.” 

“It’s not just that,” Kenny said. “It’s to get off. I get off on it.” 

“So?” Cartman asked. “You can go to your room and beat your meat after. None of us’ll say anything.” 

“Cartman,” Kenny said. “I get that you’re worried or whatever and you don’t like her, but I need it. I need her.” 

“Don’t say that,” Cartman said. “You don’t need anything. What the hell do you need her for?” 

“I’m not like you or Stan or Kyle,” Kenny said. “You guys can just—just turn it off. You’re all practically asexual. I can’t do that. I can’t not fuck.” He unfolded his finger from his beer can, jabbed a black-painted nail into Cartman’s chest. “What do you want me to do instead, huh? Go pay for some prostitute and get an STD? At least I know Clarissa. At least she’s clean.” 

Cartman glanced away and bit off a sigh. He wrenched a chair out from the table and sat down. Kenny eyed him curiously over another drink. 

“What’s your plan?” Cartman asked. “What do you want to get out of it?” 

“Nothing,” Kenny said. He thunked his beer next to Cartman’s elbow. “I don’t have a plan.” 

“Okay,” Cartman huffed. 

Kenny slid to his feet and sat across from Cartman. “What?” he prompted. 

Cartman leaned forward, brown eyes sharp as stone beneath his bangs. “I know you,” he said. “You’re a hopeless romantic. You can’t keep this up much longer. Clarissa’s gonna leave you high and dry.” 

Kenny barked an acidic laugh. “I’m not in love with Clarissa.” 

“You will be,” Cartman said. 

“You don’t know jack fucking shit, man,” Kenny said. “You don’t know who the hell I’m in love with.” 

Cartman blinked. His angry scowl simmered down to a confused frown. “You are in love with somebody?” 

“Maybe,” Kenny snapped. “Maybe I am. Not like it fucking matters.” 

“Of course it matters,” Cartman said. “Who is it?” 

“Nobody,” Kenny said. Nobody but his three idiot best friends—and it all started with the biggest idiot of the bunch sitting in front of him, back when they were both fourteen and Cartman passed him extra tater tots under the lunch table. “You wouldn’t get it, dude. You’re incapable.” 

“I’m capable,” Cartman said. “I’m capable of emotion.” 

“You love things,” Kenny said. “You love cats and beer and burgers. You don’t love people.” 

Cartman crossed his arms and looked down, jowls pursed. Kenny almost expected him to confess—confess that he loved Kenny, at least; it’d be the natural starting point, and the rest would evolve from there. But he didn’t say a damn thing. 

Kenny pushed away from the table and stomped to the living room. He retrieved his smokes from his jacket pocket. The cold night welcomed him into its breast as he stepped outside. He sat down on the stoop and huddled around a cigarette, bare arms shivering beneath his cut-off tee. The movie continued playing at his back, but when he glanced at the kitchen window he saw Cartman’s shadow still hunched behind the shades. 

The neighborhood creaked and whimpered on either side of their house. The meth lab across the cul-de-sac leaked muted music. Kenny nearly went and knocked on their door. The person wallowing inside and the person scraping a dog off the highway and the person teaching kids how to play basketball were not the people who kept his ass glued to the stoop. It was Karen, his sister, whose name was branded across his heart. She had moved to sunny New Mexico after getting her nursing degree and currently lead a good life with a charming long-term boyfriend and golden retriever. He couldn’t shatter her idyllic world. She was counting on him to keep himself in check. If he went off the deep end she’d be the one taking his fall. 

He lit another cigarette instead of a meth pipe. Cars whirred in the distance but none came down the street. It was a dead-end. It didn’t lead anywhere. Traffic belonged solely to the tweakers. Unless—

A silver Toyota Camry flashed like the edge of a knife and crawled to a stop beside Cartman’s Altima. Kyle stepped out and walked slow towards Kenny, his athletic sweatpants swishing in the breeze, his Sperrys squishing the slush-drenched grass, his unzipped jacket parting to reveal a Boys and Girls club t-shirt. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” Kenny said. 

Kyle noticed the shadow lurking at the kitchen window. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” Kenny said. He scooted so Kyle could go inside. 

Kyle unfortunately chose to sit next to him. “What’d Cartman do this time?” 

“Just, you know, being an ass,” Kenny said.

“Cartman’s always an ass,” Kyle said. “He usually doesn’t run you out of the house.” 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. 

“So what was it?” Kenny asked.

“Just some bullshit,” Kenny said. 

Kyle cupped his knee. “Look, Kenny—”

Kenny bounced his leg. “Don’t touch me.”

Kyle’s hand fell between them. “Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” 

Kenny suckled a deep pull, directed the exhale out of the corner of his mouth. The wind picked it up and threw it over his shoulder. 

Kyle remained silent, his fancy cologne masked by the smell of sweat and old linoleum. The silence got to be too much. Kenny felt more questions coming on, so he asked one of his own. “How was practice, coach?” 

Kyle grinned. “Good. Most of the kids suck. There’s a couple who are pretty good, though.” 

“Yeah?” Kenny asked. 

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I was surprised how much I missed it. Being on the court and all. Even if it’s on the sidelines.” 

“You could’ve kept playing,” Kenny told him. “You got all those scholarships.” 

Kyle shrugged. “I didn’t want to take them. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I would’ve had to pick a degree at random. I didn’t wanna wake up thirty years old and find myself living a life without knowing why.” 

“What about now?” Kenny asked. “Do you regret it?” 

Kyle’s grin softened. “Nope.” 

“I don’t know, man,” Kenny said. “You could’ve been a lawyer or a doctor or something.” 

“I’m not that much of a Jew,” Kyle said. He bumped Kenny’s elbow. “Honestly, though. I’m happy.” 

That was enough for Kenny. “Alright,” he said. 

“What about you?” Kyle asked. “Are you happy?” 

“Sure,” Kenny said. “I’m happy. But I’ve got low expectations.” He pointed his cigarette at the meth lab. “I’m not them. So I’m good with it.” 

“Are you satisfied?” Kyle asked. 

“Can’t get no satisfaction,” Kenny quipped. He turned his head. “The hell kind of question is that?” 

“Just, well.” Kyle folded his shoulders against the wind, his keys squeezed between his hands between his knees. “You get restless.” 

“Do I look restless now?” Kenny asked. 

Kyle cupped his knee again. It ceased bouncing. “Yes.” 

“Stagnant water,” Kenny said. 

Kyle thumbed his knee. “Huh?” 

“Can’t swim in stagnant water,” Kenny extrapolated. 

“Please don’t talk in riddles,” Kyle requested. “Tell me what you really mean.”

“You won’t hear it,” Kenny said. “You won’t listen.” 

Kyle’s brow slanted. “So it has to do with me, too? Not just Cartman? Is it all of us?” 

Kenny flicked his cigarette. Embers pirouetted in the air and curtsied onto his socked feet. He ingested a final drag, cocked his arm above his head and smashed the filter into the ashtray on the banister. 

“Kenny,” Kyle said. “If you have a problem you need to tell us.” 

“There’s no problem,” Kenny said. “I’ve got low expectations.” 

Kyle stood up and brushed the dirt and ash off his sweatpants. “Fine. I’ll go ask Cartman.” 

“You do that,” Kenny said. “He’ll give you a real unbiased account.” 

“At least he’ll give me something,” Kyle said and went inside. 

The door shut. Kenny looked at the kitchen window. Kyle’s shadow bloomed around Cartman’s. Kenny listened to his indiscernible inquiries. Cartman responded semi-discernibly: “Bitch—moron—slut—looking out for him—” Everybody always wanted to look out for Kenny, but nobody wanted to look in. 

He checked the time on his phone. 8:13 PM. He called Clarissa. 

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hey,” he said. “I’ll go.” 

“Okay,” she said. He could tell her he wanted to marry her or he was going to kill himself and she’d emote nothing either way. “Wanna ride with me?” 

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll walk to your place.” 

“Right now?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Gotta stop for more cigarettes.” 

“Okay,” she said and hung up. 

Kenny cracked the front door open, grabbed his jacket and shoes. The kitchen chairs creaked. Kyle and Cartman’s voices paused. He shut the door before they looked and started lumbering down the street. He put one foot in front of the other, tight-roping down the pockmarked curb. It was a game he came up with when he was a kid. He rifled his jacket and stuck the tangled pair of earbuds he carried everywhere into his phone. Stone Temple Pilots slid past his eardrums into his brain. And I feel that time's a wasted go, so where you going to tomorrow? And I see that these are lies to come—would you even care?

He postponed getting his license until he was twenty-six. Thus the entirety of South Park was mapped out on the soles of his Converse. He knew all the byways and alleyways and four-way stops. When he was a teenager he liked to walk down Main Street’s turn lane flanked by oppositional currents of traffic. He did it again tonight, mechanical beasts stirring his bloodstream. 

He was halfway dissociative by the time he reached the gas station near Clarissa’s apartment. The awning threw a tent of orange light. Bugs buzzed, gasoline glugged, people shuffled across stains in the cement. The door pinged as Kenny stepped inside. It wasn’t a mega-chain gas station but a little oily shack. A glass cabinet held weed paraphernalia. Meth pipes lined the bottom shelf hidden behind a ring of miniature bongs. Kenny’s bloated veins throbbed. He bought two packs of Marlboros and ran back into the street. 

Clarissa answered her door wearing a black dress, Kenny’s handiwork on full display. “Paul and Megan will be here soon,” she told him as he acquainted himself with her living room. Her decorations were as bland as her personality. She funneled all her gloomy aesthetic into her aura. She was a walking shroud. 

“Okay,” he said. He sat down in the recliner beside the window. She placed an ashtray on the end table separating his chair and the couch. She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. Tentacles crawled up her shinbones and disappeared underneath her skirt. 

They smoked in silence and watched the Price is Right. A little known fact about Clarissa was that she was obsessed with shitty daytime television. Kenny bet she ordered the retirement center cable package. She liked infomercials. They were amusing to her. Satirical, she said. 

She didn’t ask him why he decided to go or why he had arrived early. The informercials ended. She got up as the game show resumed and returned with a purple bong made by one of her glassblower friends. They traded it back and forth. 

Somebody knocked on the door. “They’re here,” Clarissa said. 

“Cool,” Kenny said.

She didn’t rise from the couch. Paul and Megan let themselves in. They looked exactly how Kenny expected: a taller male version of Clarissa and a fatter female version of Clarissa, respectively. She only socialized with clones. Kenny wondered if he was a clone, too. 

“This is Kenny,” Clarissa told them. 

They sat down on the floor. Paul stretched a hand ringed with silver towards Kenny. He had a firm handshake. 

“Hey,” Kenny said. 

“Salutations,” Paul said. 

Megan peered at him underneath the brim of her black hair. “Clarissa says you’re endowed,” she said. 

He wasn’t sure whether that referred to his cock or extrasensory abilities. He looked at Clarissa. She tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. “We should leave,” she said. 

Her goth goons smoked a bowl each to catch up then everybody piled into Clarissa’s sedan. Kenny sat in the passenger seat. Paul and Megan sat in the back. Clarissa rolled the windows down. Paul puffed the same vape model Stan owned. Menthol juice instead of mango. If you were gonna switch at least commit to the Fruity Pebble pussification, Kenny thought. This lack of dedication knocked his opinion of Paul down a peg. Megan, meanwhile, lit a whole goddamn Cuban pipe. It sizzled loud behind Kenny’s head. 

They reminded Kenny of Henrietta’s crew. But Henrietta and her friends didn’t perform. They stopped trying proving themselves to anybody after high school. Paul and Megan were verifiable actors. Kenny glanced at Clarissa. She didn’t seem like an actor, but what the hell did he know. She was probably the troupe’s leader. 

The venue was packed. Clarissa parked two blocks down. She and Kenny smoked cigarettes whilst Paul and Megan fellatio-ed their props. Paul jogged ahead to match Kenny’s pace and started talking about the art of taxidermy. It was actually mildly interesting. Kenny would’ve asked to buy a dead animal if it were any other taxidermist. 

Megan’s eyes bored into his spine. He looked over his shoulder. She smacked her pipe against her hand and stowed it into her shawl. 

“We already have tickets,” Clarissa said when they entered the venue’s foyer. “You’ll have to buy yours,” she told Kenny. 

“That’s fine,” Kenny said. He wanted a break, anyway. 

The trio disappeared. He slipped into the ticket booth line and purchased a pass. The foyer lead towards a dark amphitheater. He circumvented the vibrating stage floor, bought a tall PBR at the bar, then snuck out to the beer garden, a seven-by-ten foot rectangle of cement enclosed in chain-links. He almost wanted to climb the fence and go back home. He downed half his PBR and smoked a couple cigarettes staring at his phone, waiting for a text from Kyle or Cartman asking where he’d gone, but he vanished too often for them to care anymore.

He found Clarissa and Megan and Paul in the middle of the floor. Stone Temple Pilots weren’t exactly hard and the cover band was even more lukewarm. They weren’t bad, though, especially when they ground some grittier tracks. Sadly, Kenny’s nodding company left him unmotivated to headbang. He and Stan had actually seen the real thing a handful of years ago, sans Weiland of course. Regardless, it was a good show and a good memory now cheapened with this bullshit. But you couldn’t afford much in South Park. And Kenny’s expectations were low. 

The audience clenched and swayed. Paul pressed up against Kenny’s back. His fingers brushed Kenny’s belt. Kenny was intrigued, despite himself. The cover band oozed into Big Empty. Smoke a cigarette and lie some more. These conversations kill…

Kenny turned around and leaned into Paul’s ear. “Wanna smoke? Or—vape, or whatever?” 

“Sure,” Paul said. 

They escaped to the beer garden. The chain-links rattled behind Kenny’s legs as Paul shoved him into the fence. Paul kissed hard, his lame soul patch burning a rash into Kenny’s chin. Kenny pushed him off and lit a cigarette. Paul lifted his vape. 

They were ignored by most of their fellow loiterers. A couple older men with white handlebar mustaches gave them the stinkeye. Kenny gave it right back and they turned away. 

“It’s always bemused me,” Paul said.

Kenny blew smoke at his soul patch. “What does?” he asked. Given his past voluntary mutism and the handholding it took to eek a thought out of Stan’s head, he didn’t mind people who required permission to speak. But Paul wasn’t asking for permission. He was looking for an invitation. If something bemused Cartman or Kyle, they’d fucking let you know. Kenny was lucky to have spent the last thirty years luxuriating under their direct communication. Sure it was annoying, but he had forgotten how much more annoying the alternative was.

“People’s presumptions,” Paul said. “Their connotations. Small town folk. I’m not from around here.”

“Never woulda guessed,” Kenny snorted. 

“I’m from Nebraska, originally,” Paul went on as if Kenny gave a damn, which he did not.

“So’s my—” Kenny began, then stopped. What, his boyfriend? Yeah right. “So’s my roommate,” he said. “My roommate’s family’s from Nebraska.” 

“What part?” Paul asked. 

Kenny shrugged. “I dunno. Only went once. He doesn’t associate with ‘em.” 

“Neither do I,” Paul said. “I moved to Vegas when I was eighteen.” 

“You look a little like Criss Angel,” Kenny conceded. 

Paul smiled tightly. “Thank you.” 

It wasn’t a compliment, Kenny nearly said. Instead he asked, “Why’d you come out here?” 

“For the game, of course,” Paul said. The menthol cloud between them grew with every sentence. “There’s a plethora of fauna to immortalize.” 

“You hunt?” Kenny asked. 

“No,” Paul said. “Hunters bring their prizes to me.” 

“I hunt,” Kenny said. “Used to, anyway.” 

“How curious,” Paul said. “I hadn’t expected that.” 

“It was just to kill time,” Kenny said. 

“Oh, really?” Paul asked. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Wasn’t much else to do. I grew up in a meth lab.” 

Paul’s eyes widened. “That’s fascinating.” 

Kenny tossed his cigarette and dropped to his knees. The simmering butt singed his jeans. The cover band sang at him through the wall: Too much walking shoes worn thin; too much tripping and my soul's worn thin… He looked up at Paul. “Want me to suck your cock?” he asked.

“Uh—” Paul’s eyes darted to the posturing mustachios. 

“Come on,” Kenny said, already unzipping his fly. “Come on, I know you want me to.” 

“Is there—a bathroom, by chance?” Paul asked.

“You wanna fight the line, huh? We’re already missing half the show,” Kenny said. “I’ll be quick, I promise, come on.” He spread his forefingers and pitchforked the hardened length bulging out of Paul’s boxers. “Come on. Forget about their presumptions, Paul.” 

Paul’s teeth raked over his soul patch. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, alright.” 

“Thanks, buddy,” Kenny said. 

Paul instinctively covered his crotch. Kenny batted Paul’s hands and let his hair curtain Paul’s penis from view. He unhinged his jaw and loosened his throat and swallowed in one easy go. 

Paul masked his pathetic yelp with a vape cloud. Menthol swarmed Kenny’s vision. He didn’t see the burly hand coming towards him until it clutched his shoulder. 

Paul’s dick flopped out of his mouth. He landed hard on his back. The two mustached guys stood above him, frowning. 

“Gotta wait your turn,” he smiled.

A heavy boot struck his stomach. Paul cursed and wrangled his jeans. Kenny curled into the fetal position, laughing. 

“Kenny,” Paul said. “Kenny, I’m gonna—get Clarissa—or Megan—or somebody—” 

“Megan hexed me,” Kenny said. 

“Did she?” Paul asked. “Uh, how do you know?” 

A kick in the teeth silenced Kenny’s answer. Paul ran back inside. Good riddance. The two guys squatted. One pulled Kenny up by his hair. “I don’t appreciate seeing a man sucking cock in public when I’m trying to smoke,” he said. 

“Wanna watch me go down on some pussy?” Kenny asked. “I can call my girl. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” 

The guy behind him punched the back of his head. He careened forward, used the momentum to roll and hop to his feet. A crowd rung the beer garden’s perimeter, giving them a wide breadth to duke it out. 

Kenny couldn’t realistically take on two huge men empty-handed. He shattered a nearby beer bottle and wielded its neck. “Come on,” he goaded. “Come on, assholes.”

They both dove for him. He danced backward and raked the serrated glass across one of their outstretched arms. The second guy locked him in a chokehold. The first rung his bleeding arm around Kenny’s shoulders and kneed his stomach. Kenny coughed. The bottle neck spasmed out of his hand. A few well-meaning onlookers pleaded for reconciliation. Most continued smoking, indifferent.

The two men slammed Kenny into the fence. He wadded the spit hanging off his lip hacked it at their faces. They blinked and dropped his lapels to wipe their eyes. He jumped and grabbed the top of the fence. A loose shoelace got tangled in the chain-links. The two men had recovered and were grappling his belt for purchase. He kicked his entangled shoe off, smashed his socked foot into one of their noses, and launched himself over the fence. 

He plummeted into a puddle of slush. The fence rattled. He turned and saw the two men were scrambling after him. They quickly gave up, old and winded. “Get lost, faggot,” one of them sneered. 

Kenny got lost. He lopsidedly trundled through the venue’s parking lot, his socked foot soaked in melted snow and spilled beer and human piss. It was a shitty show, anyway. He hadn’t really wanted to suck Paul’s dick, anyway. It was just something to do. A fight was more amusing. Listlessly walking around town was even more amusing than a fight. It was the most amusing thing one could ever do. 

He ducked into a liquor store and bought a six-ring of PBR to reestablish inebriation. He tore off a can, slipped its plastic ring around his bony wrist like a bracelet. He sidled onto Main Street’s turn lane and dared every passing car to hit him. He kind of wanted to die. He hadn’t died in awhile. He couldn’t remember the last time he died. The guys and Karen were like a team of guardian angels. They wanted him alive, so he stayed alive. The universe was romantic and he was hopeless. 

Main Street lead him past Clarissa’s apartment complex and the business district towards the drainage tunnels. He wove between cars and stood on the sloping precipice. Neon storefronts and starry moonlight reflected off the immoble river of snow runoff below him. He hiked down and sat on the cement riverbed. The breeze reminded him he’d lost his shoe. He shook out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one of the unbroken few. 

He didn’t think to check his phone until all six cans sat empty at his feet. The clock read 11:43 PM. Beneath it were several concerned texts from Kyle, which Kenny ignored, and one from Cartman sent at 10:30. Kyle told me to apologize. Sorry 

Most would consider it a lackluster apology. If Cartman truly didn’t care, though, he wouldn’t have sent anything at all; admission to Kyle’s authority further proved his guilt. Kenny thumbed through Kyle’s endless where-are-yous, what-are-you-doings and are-you-okays punctuated by five minute intervals. His most recent message was timestamped at 11:27. The newest text, received minutes ago at 11:39, was from Stan. 

Hey, was all it said. 

Kenny decided to give him a call. He answered halfway through the first ring. 

“Kenny,” he said. 

Kenny manipulated the nasty water at his toes, watched it ripple away into nothing. 

“I just got home,” Stan said. “Kyle’s freaking out—”

“Did you get that dog?” Kenny asked. 

“What?” Stan asked. 

“That dog Shelly’s friend found,” Kenny said. 

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Stan said. “He’s at the vet.” 

“Poor thing,” Kenny said.

“He was only two months old,” Stan said. “In a box. Somebody abandoned him. But he’s okay now. He’s gonna come to the shelter once he’s better.” 

“That’s nice,” Kenny said. “I wanna see him.” 

“Okay, I’ll take you,” Stan said. “Where are you, anyway?” 

Kenny laughed at the sky. “A place.” 

“Cartman called Clarissa,” Stan said. 

Kenny stopped laughing. “What the hell did he say?” 

“Nothing bad, I guess,” Stan said. “I wasn’t here yet. Kyle watched him do it. He asked if she’d seen you. She said no. She said you were at a concert and got in a fight and left.” 

“Oh, well,” Kenny said. 

“Did you?” Stan asked. 

“She took me to some Stone Temple Pilots cover band,” Kenny said. 

“I didn’t know that was a thing,” Stan said. 

“That’s what I said,” Kenny said. “It sucked. We’re gonna have to see them again so I can forget about it.” 

“Okay, I’ll take you,” Stan repeated, full of promises. “What are you doing?” 

“Are you with the guys?” Kenny asked. “Can they hear you?” 

“No,” Stan said, “I’m in my room. Cartman’s calming Kyle down. They’re watching the Price is Right.”

“Oh,” Kenny said. 

“They wanted to go out looking for you,” Stan said, “but I told them that’s a bad idea.” He would know. He specialized in finding feral animals. “Come home,” he said. “Whatever this is about we’ll work it out.” 

Kenny stuffed the plastic six-ring into his pocket and stood up, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. He opened his second pack of cigarettes, lit one, and unzipped his fly. “I’m moving out,” he said as he pissed into the stagnant water. 

“You’re what?” Stan asked. 

“I’ve got my eye on this cardboard box,” Kenny said. 

“Dude, shut up,” Stan sighed. “You’re not gonna live in a fucking box.” 

“Sure I can,” Kenny said. He left his dick out and plucked the cigarette from his lips. “Why the hell not?” 

“You’re better than that,” Stan said. 

“Nuh-uh,” Kenny said.

“If you run away we’ll call Karen,” Stan warned. “Kyle was about to call her tonight.”

This gave Kenny pause. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” Stan said. “We’re worried about you, man. You’re being weird.” 

“This is who I am,” Kenny said. “This is my root essence.” 

“You’re just drunk,” Stan told him. “This isn’t you. You don’t get in random fights. You’re a pacifist.” 

“It was self-defense,” Kenny defended. “I didn’t throw the first punch.” 

“Well how did it start?” Stan asked. 

Kenny took a drag, postponing his answer. It was impossible to lie to Stan. Cartman bullshitted so much that lying was just another method of communicating with him. Kyle never knew when to back off, so Kenny lied sometimes to avoid his pushy doting. But Stan was too honest and understanding to evade. It wasn’t a secret that Kenny held a soft spot for him. They all did.

“Clarissa brought her friends,” Kenny told him. “This witch, she cursed me, I think. But the other one, Paul, I sucked his dick. Tried to, at least. Couple of guys got mad. That’s it.”

“Why?” Stan asked. 

“It was in the beer garden,” Kenny said. “I didn’t want to go all the way to the stinky bathroom—”

“No, I mean, why did you suck Paul’s dick?” Stan clarified. 

“I dunno,” Kenny muttered. 

“Cartman said he pissed you off,” Stan said. “Was it to get back at him?” 

“Maybe,” Kenny said. 

“Is this about you know what?” Stan asked. 

“Maybe,” Kenny said. 

“You told me they’d figure it out soon,” Stan reminded him. “You told me you were patient.” 

“It’s just—annoying,” Kenny huffed. “He’s so goddamn annoying. He’s so fucking jealous and he won’t admit it. He doesn’t want me with her. But he doesn’t want me with him, either.” 

“Yes he does,” Stan said. “He does, Kenny. I mean, fuck—” He sucked in a sharp breath, most likely pinching the bridge of his nose; a consternated response Kenny saw all the time but didn’t often inspire. “I’ve been thinking about everything,” Stan said. “Ever since we talked about it. And I think it all started with you two, right? I mean, right?” 

“Maybe,” Kenny said, then added, “yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Yeah, man. I mean, really. You’ve been after each other since we were kids, you know. I was with Wendy, and then I was busy getting over Wendy, and Kyle was—well, Kyle—but you and Cartman, man—”

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “I know.” 

“And you’ve always had somebody on the side, like Clarissa,” Stan said. “Cartman’s never had that. He hasn’t been with anybody since Heidi fucking Turner. He’s only had you, dude. So I think it’s understandable that he’s territorial.” 

“It doesn’t matter, though,” Kenny said. “It’s not fair. If he pisses on me he can be territorial, but he hasn’t. He won’t.” 

“He will,” Stan said. “Tap into your vibe. Listen to your gut. You know he will.” 

“My vibe’s blocked,” Kenny said. “The witch got me.”

“Are you serious?” Stan asked. “Did she really do something to you?” 

“Yes,” Kenny said. “She ruined the whole night. I’m marked. That’s why I gotta move out. I’m bad voodoo, Stan.” 

“Okay, sure,” Stan relented. “Just come back. You can sleep in the backyard. I’ll pour some salt. I’ll I’ll call a priest. Just wait till morning before you take yourself off the lease.” 

The concept of walking a whole mile with one shoe made Kenny waver on his feet. He stumbled and fell onto his ass. His jeans bunched, causing his unzipped fly to pinch his exposed cock. “Shit,” he cried. 

“Kenny?” Stan asked. “Are you okay?” 

Kenny tucked his cold, shriveled penis away. He didn’t have the energy to button his pants. He picked up his fallen cigarette with cold fingers. He tried relighting it four times before he realized it was wet and that he’d been holding it backwards. 

“Where are you?” Stan asked. “I’ll come get you. I’ll crawl out my window and sneak around the front so the guys don’t know.”

Kenny spit tobacco off his tongue and tried again with a new cigarette. The smoke burnt the snot out of his throat. “I don’t know where I’m at,” he said.

There was a lot of movement on Stan’s end, then jangling keys. “Can you get up and look around?” 

“I’m tired,” Kenny said. 

“I can’t get you if you don’t tell me where you are,” Stan said. He opened his window. It thudded shut, soft and muffled. Kenny heard grass and wind. “Just look around and tell me what you see.” 

“Okay,” Kenny said. “I’ll call you back—”

“No, don’t hang up,” Stan interjected. “Just look, Kenny.” 

Kenny checked over his shoulder. Multicolored light haloed the top of the slope but no signs were visible. He turned back around and read their inverted reflections in the stagnant water. “I’m across the street from that cash store off Main,” he said. “At the tunnels.”

“Dude,” Stan said. “That’s fucking shady, man.” 

“I’m shady,” Kenny said. 

“You’re not shady, Kenny,” Stan said. He finally made it to his hybrid. The engine purred into Kenny’s ear, followed by the hiss of Stan’s vape. “You’re not shady,” Stan said again, his words imbued with mango. “You’re, like, light, dude. You’re good. You’re sunny and nice and you’re not whatever that witch made you feel.”

“I dunno,” Kenny mumbled. 

“You are,” Stan insisted, his voice distant now; his phone on speaker, sitting in his cup holder. “You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met. Look—I think Cartman had a point, maybe. I’m not saying he went about it the right way, but maybe Clarissa and her friends aren’t good for you.” 

“I don’t really like any of ‘em,” Kenny said. “I don’t like her, either. She’s a good lay, though.” 

“Is she honestly?” Stan asked. “Is the sex even that great?” 

“No,” Kenny said. “It’s like fucking blow-up doll.” 

“See?” Stan asked. “You know, you keep talking about Cartman and you know what and everything, but I don’t know. If it was about that—like—” He paused for a second, gathering resolve, then said, “If it was about love and stuff you’d go out and find somebody nice, probably. I mean, I tried a couple times, but—”

“What’re you saying?” Kenny asked. 

“Cartman and Kyle were talking when I walked in,” Stan backtracked. “Cartman was really upset. Seriously. He was talking about you and Clarissa. And the things she does to you.” 

Kenny scowled. “This again? I told you guys it’s nothing. People do it all the time.” 

“It’s not that,” Stan said. “None of us give a fuck about that. Is it kind of weird, in my opinion? Yeah. But, I mean, I understand it. The problem is the fact that it’s her.” 

“Stan,” Kenny said. “You don’t get it—”

“I do,” Stan said. “I do, Kenny. We all looked into it.” 

“Huh?” Kenny asked. 

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Me and Kyle and Cartman. We all sat down and read about it. There’s, like, protocol and shit. There’s stuff Clarissa’s supposed to do to make sure you’re not all fucked up afterward, but she doesn’t do anything, does she?” 

Kenny swallowed another gulp of smoke, his silence confirmation enough. 

“You don’t see yourself when you come back from her place,” Stan said. “You’re out of it. You’re quiet.” 

“I’m always quiet,” Kenny said. 

“Not like that,” Stan said. “Not the nice quiet. It’s scary quiet. It’s like you’re not even here quiet.” 

“I didn’t know,” Kenny said. 

“We’ve tried telling you,” Stan said. “We’ve tried, Kenny. You just never listened. That’s why Cartman was so angry.” 

“Okay,” Kenny said. 

“I mean, it’s supposed to be fun, right?” Stan asked. “In theory it’s supposed to get all the junk outta your system, right?” 

“I guess,” Kenny said. 

“Well, do you feel better after? Or worse?” Stan asked. 

“I dunno,” Kenny said. He finished his cigarette in three long pulls and staunched it on the back of his hand. The burn woke up him a little. He turned his hand into the light, watched the colors reflect off the fresh blister. “I dunno how I feel,” he said.

“You’re the most emotionally intelligent out of any of us,” Stan said. “You just ignore your own feelings.” 

“I’m an emotional retard,” Kenny said. “I’m an idiot.” 

“You’re not an idiot,” Stan said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You know Clarissa’s bad for you. And you keep seeing her anyway. Is this about hurting yourself? Is that what this is really about?” 

“Stan,” Kenny said. 

“I’m here,” Stan said. 

All the color disappeared from the water at Kenny’s feet. He turned around. Stan’s Civic sat on the sloped precipice eclipsing the streetlights. The passenger door opened. Stan stared at him, bent across the middle console.

“Come on,” Stan said into his ear. 

Kenny pocketed his phone and crawled on his belly towards Stan’s car. Stan sat back behind the wheel. Kenny grasped the edge of the passenger seat and climbed inside and shut the door. He curled his legs and wrapped his arms around his shins, forgoing a seatbelt in favor of embryonic shelter. 

Stan merged back onto the road. “What happened to your shoe?” he asked. 

Kenny turned. “What?” 

“Your shoe,” Stan said. “What happened to your other shoe?” 

Kenny blinked at his sopping wet foot. “Got caught in a fence.” 

“You’ve had those for years,” Stan said. 

“Ever since I was sixteen,” Kenny confirmed. He traced the lace of his remaining Converse across the faded graffiti on its scuffed toe, penned by Stan and Kyle in blue and green ink. Cartman’s red libel covered his lost shoe. 

“We can go back at look for it,” Stan offered. 

“Nah,” Kenny said. He planted his feet on the floor. “It’s not worth it.” 

“Okay,” Stan said. 

“Somebody probably already thew it away,” Kenny said. 

“Maybe not,” Stan said. “Maybe it’s still there. Let’s go anyway. I’ll do it.” 

“Okay,” Kenny said. 

Stan drove down the same route Kenny had walked, one window cracked to exhume vape clouds. Streetlights lanced across their swirly Van Gogh innards. Kenny caught pictures. Blooming flowers and cresting tsunamis.

“Paul vaped,” he said. “Same one as you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Stan asked.

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “It didn’t smell good. He was a total bitch.” 

“Well,” Stan said. 

“You vape with pride,” Kenny said. 

Stan smirked. “Thanks, man.” He pressed the button for Kenny’s window. 

“I already went through a whole pack,” Kenny said. He lit a cigarette anyway, the razored smoke abrading his gravelly throat. Fly-aways were sacrificed on the orange cherry as the wind kicked his hair around. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“For what?” Stan asked. 

“Everything,” Kenny said. “You guys were right about everything. Clarissa’s a demon.” 

“I never said that,” Stan said. “I don’t doubt she’s an okay person. But maybe not the person for you.” 

“She isn’t,” Kenny said. “Nobody is. Except, well—”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “I know.” 

Kenny was sick of Stan’s pussy-footing. One of them had to speak the truth into existence or else nothing would move forward. “Nobody but you guys,” he said. “Nobody but you and Kyle and Eric.” 

Stan’s hand tightened on the wheel. His vape hummed. The cloud swarmed Kenny’s puny cigarette trail. 

“I mean it,” Kenny said. “The stuff with Clarissa and Paul, that’s all bullshit. It’s all bullshit. I do it to forget. Every time I think it’ll wash you guys out of my head but it never does.” 

“Kenny,” Stan said. “It’s okay. I’ve been with other people too.” 

“It’s not the same,” Kenny said. “You’re normal. You take people out on dates and put effort in. It’s okay if it doesn’t work out because at least you tried. I don’t try. I don’t do anything. I let people step on me and tie me up. That ain’t normal.” 

“Sure it is,” Stan said. He raised his eyebrows at Kenny’s disbelieving look. “It is, Kenny. I told you we read up on it.” 

“You said you thought it was weird,” Kenny said. 

“It is weird,” Stan said. “You’re a weird guy, Kenny, but that’s okay. It makes sense.” 

“What?” Kenny asked. 

Stan shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re, like, chill. You don’t care when Cartman and Kyle boss you around.” 

“They boss you around too,” Kenny said. 

“That’s basic stuff,” Stan said. “They tell me what to wear, or go get dinner. And I listen because I trust their judgment and I want them to be happy. But with you it’s different. If Cartman told you to smash your fingers with a hammer you’d do it. If Kyle told you to go to college you’d do it.” 

“I wouldn’t go to college,” Kenny said. 

“Sure you would, if Kyle pressed hard enough,” Stan said. “He wouldn’t make you go into accounting. He might suggest you take a painting class. And you would.”

“I guess,” Kenny said. 

“What about Cartman?” Stan asked. “What if he told you to break all your fingers?” 

“He wouldn’t,” Kenny said. 

“But if he did,” Stan said. “You would to prove you could. You did all kinds of stupid dares when we were kids. So that makes sense. And, I mean, the other part—the pain makes sense too. Look at you, dude. All tatted and pierced. You’re hooked on it.”

“I like it,” Kenny said. 

“Why?” Stan asked. 

Kenny ashed his cigarette over his window. “It’s exciting. It’s a good pain. Like when we wrestle.” 

“A good pain, right,” Stan said. “But the pain Clarissa gives you is the bad kind, isn’t it?” 

“Not really,” Kenny said. “It’s the same idea. She’s just not good at it.” 

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” Stan said. 

“No, I mean, she’s good at beating me up,” Kenny said. “But when we’re done she just shoves me out the door. There’s no come down.” 

“You need to decompress,” Stan said.

“I guess,” Kenny said. 

They arrived at the venue. Stan ambled through the empty lot and parked next to the beer garden. “It was here?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. 

“Okay.” Stan unlatched his seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.” 

Kenny watched him shimmy over the fence. He returned a couple minutes later. Kenny’s missing Converse thunked onto the middle console. 

“I told you,” Stan said.

“Holy shit—” Kenny chucked his cigarette out the window and cradled the shoe in his hands. “I can’t believe it was still there.” 

“It’s good voodoo,” Stan said, reclaiming the wheel. “I told you. Your vibe is fine.” 

Kenny jammed his wet heel into the frayed canvas material. It fit like a snug condom. He bent his leg and rested his foot on his knee, cupped the sole in his palm. “Thanks,” he said. 

“You’re welcome,” Stan said. “Now let’s go home.” 

“Oh, Christ,” Kenny groaned. “They’re gonna kill me.” 

“No they won’t,” Stan said. “They’ll be glad you’re back, I promise.” 

Stan put on Stone Temple Pilots. Kenny didn’t think about Clarissa or Paul or the fight. He thought about him and Stan railing at Denver, drunkenly crooning to the lyrics they both knew by heart. Time to take her home, her dizzy head is conscience laden; time to wait too long, to wait too long.

“We’ll see ‘em again,” Stan said. “I’ll take you out the next time they’re in Denver.” 

Kenny reclined his dizzy head, his tangled hair hiding half of Stan from sight. “Sounds like a date.” 

Stan smiled. “Maybe. I hope by then it will be.” 

Something warm and soft like puppy fur brushed Kenny’s heart. “Okay,” he said. 

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence. Kenny rested his temple on the half-open window and let the wind hold his hair. Stan passed him mango clouds. He opened his eyes when the car stopped. Their house waited for him deceptively quiet, all the lights off save for the living room window. 

Stan reached for Kenny’s hand. Kenny looked down at their entwined fingers, then up at Stan. 

“Come on,” Stan said. 

He followed Stan onto the stoop. Stan unlocked the door and stepped inside. Kenny let go of his hand. 

Kyle and Cartman turned around, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, their faces drawn in anxious surprise. 

“Hey,” Kenny said. “I’m home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going through my other fic and thought the dialogue read unmoored so i went ham with the speaker tags on this one. please let me know if it makes conversations seem stuttered


End file.
